Richard Fox

 


Paper boat

people lived in caves
people looked out the mouth and the eyes
people thought the moon was a hole in the sky
but the sun was actually a bathplug
holding the water on the outside

here comes the rain
people constantly thinking in raincoats

if he had clever hands he would fold a paper boat rather

people floated on the august wind
like an assortment of winter leaves
hung in the gutter waiting for spring
people blew along the surface

life was golden
life was fallen red and yellow

people lived in cars
the road shone as if covered with tiny bits of glass
the road was covered with tiny bits of glass
behind the glass there were tiny bits of road going other places

he thought he saw people
out the window of a bus
but they were just people outside the window of a bus  

and if he had clever hands he would still fold a paper boat rather
he would put tar all on the outside

people came and went as if nothing had happened
people came and went
people come and go
nothing happens

that seems to be the best of it

 


Used Vehicles

Traffic takes me back to the days when there were less vehicles
and people stayed indoors more, relied on natural timing to put
in an appearance when it was absolutely necessary, and then get
done by a mammoth on a routine hunting expedition,

Your fifteen minutes of fame cut short by a sudden juddering
feeling, straight through and outů
nobody stopped to watch. Those there dug a hole
offered your meat to strange gods, ate what little was left,
grew the wings of giant birds in slight lit caves
and opened small businesses

after having found the ocean brave with dead men's dreams
and a land unconquered beyond the reach of any King
we grew soft and lazy, fat and slowly
towering achievement on top of achievement, paving cities
of gold out of circles of power, of pain and punishment

wrapping men in leopard skin, tagging them cold, humourless
marking them fit for war, placing them in the line of fire
then measuring it from point of impact to grave.
Those of them as were not wounded we tried to save all
our failures reflect a willingness to learn to keep
on mass producing these weapons of self destruction.

Somewhere along the line even the Manson family could
give us a Jesus Christ. Lost halfway between Bliss and
Oblivion in a used ford the options are endless
down a narrow road desert skirts the dirt lane, Reality is
a concurring nightmare, the devil's accident without Re Call.

Ive been Dreaming in cactus, walking for miles without a soul

 


(Both of these poems first appeared in 876,
published by Third Word Publishing)

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